Title: From Me To You
Summary: "Tell me you broke my spine so you could bind together all the pages of our book, so we wouldn't lose a word." Just tell me you love me. / Albus, Scorpius, and drawing stars on their wrists where the scars should be. One-shot.
Notes: I'm feeling insanely melancholic because I've had a fucked-up week and got involuntarily outed to my entire school, so I kind of churned this out in a matter of half an hour. Updates will be slow due to previous mention of fucked-up week and general fucked-up life, but until next time, I hope you enjoy.
Warning: Brief mentions of suicidal thoughts and/or self harm. You can read as deeply into them as you wish, and I've decidedly left the last few paragraphs open to interpretation.
So, tell me you love me.
Tell me you hate me.
Tell me I'm your world and it doesn't matter why, but you still think about me, still watch me, learn from me, obsess over me.
Tell me the bridges we broke down were keeping us safe from the bad guys on the other side. Tell me they were helping us get across No Man's land and into safety. But tell me we broke down the bridge together, darling, and I won't mind.
Tell me you whispered words of love and devotion into my palms; tell me you spun fairytales out of cobwebs and draped them around my shoulders. Tell me you screamed hate and emotion into my throat; tell me you weaved nightmares out of jump rope and knotted them around my neck.
Tell me your words are sewn into my soul and tattooed across my skin and engraved onto my heart.
Tell me they won't rub off with cuts and bruises; tell me they won't smudge with tears and lipstick stains; tell me they won't fade at dawn.
Come on, dear.
Tell me you watch me; tell me you can't look away when I swing my hips just a little further or when I make my eyelids just a little heavier. Tell me you ignore me, when I - just a little prettier, just a little fuller, just a little more - and tell me you love to see me make a fool of myself.
Or you can just tell me you think about me.
Tell me you broke my spine so you could bind together all the pages of our book, so we wouldn't lose a word; tell me you snapped my fingers so I'd never have to type another word, so that every word would be spoken into every crevice of your skin.
Tell me you broke me for the sake of breaking me. Or just tell me you've touched me (even if your fingers pressed too hard). It doesn't matter.
Because I don't care what your mouth says. It can be an archer's bow, standing over across No Man's land aimed at my neck; or it could be Cupid's bow. Forbidden love, and all that. Doesn't that sound romantic from your lips, love?
I don't care if your kisses leave bite marks and bruises, or if your fingers heal and scar, or if your love will draw a shovel and make me bury myself alive.
I don't care as long as you kiss me, as long as you touch me, as long as you love me.
Come now, sweetheart.
Fight me. (I only told you no so you would hold me to the wall and tell me yes.) Push me. (I was only standing so I could look into your eyes.) Hit me. (I only fought back so I could hear the passion in your voice.) Break me. (I was only held in by cellotape and glue, and the look in your eyes when you told me you loved me.)
Tell me this is a war, love. Tell me you've raised the white flag.
Tell me the memories won't leave me; tell me I'll be haunted for the rest of my life, and I'll love it, because I'll miss the battlefield with all those shining lights and those dying lives and all the petty people who dressed up and played solider.
Tell me I'll heal; tell me I'll forget and tell me the battlefield did me no good. Tell me you loved me when we were at war and tell me you'll still love me when the rifle is pointed away from my mouth.
But tell me it happened, dear, because I don't know what I'd do if I imagined all that heartbreak and missed it.
Tell me you wrote down every word in a love poem, even the ones you couldn't say; tell me you wrote novels, sonnets, epics, about me and your love and our fear and tell me you made it special.
Tell me you sung out every bad word you've ever said against me, and tuned it to a guitar in the corner and rocked it like a child. Tell me that the metal music that told you I hated you deafened you but you could still hear the rhymes in your head.
I hope I'm the words that ring in your head at night. I don't mind what the words are; as long as they're mine.
And if I draw a star on my wrist, will you interpret it as boredom? Creativity? Will you think it means something like far-flung-dreams and far-flung-hopes and wishes on stars?
Or will you look closer and realise that the ink lines cross my veins perfectly?
And if I walk up to the Astronomy tower, will you presume the worst; do you think I'll be kissing another? The stars are so romantic after all, dear, and you've never been inclined to late-night kisses under the moonlight, have you? So, will you storm up, and drag me down the stone stairs and kiss me until I bleed?
Or will you join me, wrap a hand around my waist and hold me tight? Will you save me?
Because maybe I'm not up there for the stars. So tell me this is the end, love. Tell me this is just the beginning.
But tell me it's our story.
Now I'm going to tell you this, darling, from me to you:
I love you. I broke down our bridges so I could meet you on the other side. My words taste like spearmint and chocolate and poison and nicotine, but darling, they're yours. I watch you, even when you're not here. I won't ever break you; if you bleed, baby, it's because I've already bled out. I couldn't save you.
No; I will always save you.
This may be a war, but I will fight for you. If you break, I'll heal you. But I'll never break you. I'll write love songs about your eyes and I'll tear the last pages out of every book so they'll never have to finish.
And if I ever draw a star on my wrist, it's because I'm dreaming of you and late-night kisses under the moonlight, pinky promise, cross my heart and hope to die.
Scor, dear, if they ever tell you we weren't meant to be, hold my hand in yours and let your kisses say we are and your punches say I do. I'll make a point of telling them the only things that are written in the stars are constellations.
I'll tell them you only have to join the dots.
Tell them I'm counting the years in heartbeats and monosyllables, and I'm counting the seconds in glances and daydreams. Tell them the apocalypse can't come quick enough. Tell them I don't want it to.
Tell them I see your face in the streetlights outside your favourite restaurant. Tell them I hear your voice in the lemonade stands you used to vent about. Tell them I smell your cologne in the stained glass windows of the Muggle church where we fucked on our second date. Tell them I can feel your hands on mine whenever I hold a gun to my head and tell myself, not today.
Tell them when you stand up from your pew in that same Muggle church and give a speech that misses out all the bridges we burnt and the wars we fought and how much we loved.
Tell them, Scorpius, that you saved me. And tell me one day that will be enough.